“I like that.
BIGGER AND BUTTER
VALUE FOR MONEY
That was the right feel about it. You might write copy for that, and perhaps for this one,
YOU’D BE READY TO BET IT WAS BUTTER-
though I’m not quite sure about it. These Dairyfields people are rather strait-laced about betting.”
“Oh, are they? What a pity! I’d done several about that, ‘HAVE A BIT ON-’ Don’t you like that one?”
Mr. Hankin shook his head regretfully.
“I’m afraid that’s too direct. Encouraging the working classes to waste their money.”
“But they all do it-why, all these women like a little flutter.”
“I know, I know. But I’m sure the client wouldn’t stand for it. You’ll soon find that the biggest obstacle to good advertising is the client. They all have their fads. That headline would do for Darling’s, but it won’t do for Dairyfields. We did very well with a sporting headline in ’26-‘PUT YOUR SHIRT ON Darling’s Non-collapsible Towel-Horse’-sold 80,000 in Ascot week. Though that was partly accident, because we mentioned a real horse in the copy and it came in at 50 to 1, and all the women who’d won money on it rushed out and bought Non-collapsible Towel-Horses out of sheer gratitude. The public s very odd.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Bredon. “They must be. There seems to be more in advertising than, so to speak, meets the eye.”
“There is,” said Mr. Hankin, a little grimly. “Well, get some copy written and bring it along to me. You know where to find my room?”
“Oh, yes-at the end of the corridor, near the iron staircase.”
“No, no, that’s Mr. Armstrong. At the other end of the corridor, near the other staircase-not the iron staircase. By the way-”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Mr. Hankin, vaguely. “That is to say-no, nothing.”
Mr. Bredon gazed after his retreating figure, and shook his fair head in a meditative manner. Then, applying himself to his task, he wrote out, rather quickly, a couple of paragraphs in praise of margarine and wandered out with them. Turning to the right, he paused opposite the door of Ingleby’s room and stared irresolutely at the iron staircase. As he stood there, the glass door of a room on the opposite side of the corridor opened and a middle-aged man shot out. Seeing Bredon, he paused in his rush for the stairhead and inquired:
“Do you want to know how to get anywhere or anything?”
“Oh! thanks awfully. No-I mean, yes. I’m the new copywriter. I’m looking for the typists’ room.”
“Other end of the passage.”
“Oh, I see, thanks frightfully. This place is rather confusing. Where does this staircase go to?”
“Down to a whole lot of departments-mostly group-managers’ rooms and board-rooms and Mr. Pym’s room and several of the Directors’ rooms and the Printing.”
“Oh, I see. Thanks ever so. Where does one wash?”
“That’s downstairs too. I’ll show you if you like.”
“Oh, thanks-thanks most awfully.”
The other man plunged down the steep and rattling spiral as though released by a spring. Bredon followed more gingerly.
“A bit precipitous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. You’d better be careful. One fellow out of your department smashed himself up here the other day.”
“No, really?”
“Broke his neck. Dead when we picked him up.”
“No, did he? was he? How on earth did he come to do that? Couldn’t he see where he was going?”
“Slipped, I expect. Must have been going too fast. There’s nothing really wrong with the staircase. I’ve never had an accident. It’s very well-lit.”
“Well-lit?” Mr. Bredon gaped vaguely at the skylight and up and down the passage, surrounded, like the one on the floor above, with glass partitions. “Oh, yes, to be sure. It’s very well-lit. Of course he must have slipped. Dashed easy thing to slip on a staircase. Did he have nails in his shoes?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t noticing his shoes. I was thinking about picking up the pieces.”
“Did you pick him up?”
“Well, I heard the racket when he went down, and rushed out and got there one of the first. My name’s Daniels, by the way.”
“Oh, is it? Daniels, oh, yes. But didn’t it come out at the inquest about his shoes?”
“I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Oh! then I suppose he didn’t have nails. I mean, if he had, somebody would have mentioned it. I mean, it would be a sort of excuse, wouldn’t it?”
“Excuse for whom?” demanded Daniels.
“For the firm; I mean, when people put up staircases and other people come tumbling down them, the insurance people generally want to know why. At least, I’m told so. I’ve never fallen down any staircases myself-touch wood.”
“You’d better not try,” retorted Daniels, evading the question of insurance. “You’ll find the wash-place through that door and down the passage on the left.”
“Oh, thanks frightfully.”
“Not at all.”
Mr. Daniels darted away into a room full of desks, leaving Mr. Bredon to entangle himself in a heavy swing door.
In the lavatory, Bredon encountered Ingleby.
“Oh!” said the latter. “You’ve found your way. I was told off to show you, but I forgot.”
“Mr. Daniels showed me. Who’s he?”
“Daniels? He’s a group-manager. Looks after a bunch of clients-Slider’s and Harrogate Bros, and a few more. Sees to the layouts and sends the stereos down to the papers and all that. Not a bad chap.”
“He seems a bit touchy about the iron staircase. I mean, he was quite matey till I suggested that the insurance people would want to look into that fellow’s accident-and then he kind of froze on me.”
“He’s been a long time in the firm and doesn’t like any nasturtiums cast at it. Certainly not by a new bloke. As a matter of fact, it’s better not to throw one’s weight about here till one’s been ten years or so in the place. It’s not encouraged.”
“Oh? Oh, thanks awfully for telling me.”
“This place is run like a Government office,” went on Ingleby. “Hustle’s not wanted and initiative and curiosity are politely shown the door.”
“That’s right,” put in a pugnacious-looking red-headed man, who was scrubbing his fingers with pumice-stone as though he meant to take the skin off. “I ask them for £50 for a new lens-and what was the answer? Economy, please, in all departments-the Whitehall touch, eh?-and yet they pay you fellows to write more-you-spend-more-you-save copy! However, I shan’t be here long, that’s one comfort.”
“This is Mr. Prout, our photographer,” said Ingleby. “He has been on the point of leaving us for the last five years, but when it comes to the point he realizes that we couldn’t do without him and yields to our tears and entreaties.”
“Tcha!” said Mr. Prout.
“The management think Mr. Prout so precious,” went on Ingleby, “that they have set his feet in a large room-”
“That you couldn’t swing a kitten in,” said Mr. Prout, “and no ventilation. Murder, that’s what they do here. Black holes of Calcutta and staircases that break people’s heads open. What we want in this country is a Mussolini to organize trade conditions. But what’s the good of talking? All the same, one of these days, you’ll see.”
“Mr. Prout is our tame firebrand,” observed Ingleby, indulgently. “You coming up, Bredon?”
“Yes, I’ve got to take this stuff to be typed.”
“Right-ho! Here you are. Round this way and up this staircase by the lift, through the Dispatching and here you are-right opposite the home of British Beauty. Children, here’s Mr. Bredon with a nice bit of copy for you.”
“Hand it here,” said Miss Rossiter, “and oh! Mr. Bredon, do you mind putting down your full name and address on this card-they want it downstairs for the file.”